


Up, Down, Forward, Backward, and Other Directions

by Blake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottomy Dean, Desperation, M/M, PWP, Somewhat newly established relationship, Wincest - Freeform, early seasons, shameless porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 14:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blake/pseuds/Blake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's not letting Dean go anywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up, Down, Forward, Backward, and Other Directions

**Author's Note:**

> Been a long while since I wrote porn like this. It felt awesome. Hope you like it! Feedback is always warmly welcomed.

Dean likes it best on a bed. Actually, make that any horizontal surface. Anywhere that gives him total free range of movement. See, against a wall, (or a car, or a table, or a gas station bathroom sink, or a clothes rack, or a still-bleeding manticore corpse, or a tree, or a recently exorcised pinball machine, or the rim of an unheated swimming pool,) there are only so many directions you can move, only so much leverage you can work with. But on a good-sized bed, you can go toward the pillows, away from the pillows, toward the left side of the bed or the right, and you can sit up, roll over, rotate, invert, curl up, and stretch out, and generally move any way you want to. Which makes it all the more hot when your little brother won’t let you move in any of those million directions because he’s holding you down exactly where he wants you to be.

Sam has one hand planted on Dean’s shoulder, pressing it into the mattress with the weight of his upper body while his free hand feels up under Dean’s shirt, which is distracting but not distracting enough that Dean can’t put a lot of fucking effort into grabbing Sam’s locked elbow with both hands and trying to push, pry, bend so Sam’s weight will have to shift. A lot of fucking effort, but Sam doesn’t budge. After a minute or so, Sam must get annoyed because he uses his free hand to swat one of Dean’s hands away and pin it down as easy as if Dean hadn’t been resisting. And Dean was totally resisting. Maybe resisting only so he could feel Sam shutting him down with the flick of a wrist, but definitely giving it his all. Dean is panting, looking up at Sam from flat on his back, but Sam isn’t even bothering with eye contact, too busing watching where he’s carefully rubbing his hot, controlled abdomen against where Dean’s cock is busting through his shorts and oh god. 

It’s not what Dean expected when Sam came back from college, or back from the dead for that matter. Not this massiveness and undisputable strength. Not this tall, powerful body that could twist Dean any which way and… yeah. He spent a lot of time studying Sam, eyeing his body, trying to memorize the changes and gauging like a kid guessing how many pinto beans in the jar. Couldn’t guess right til he felt it all on top of him, though.

Still takes him by surprise sometimes, though. Maybe every time. Hard to tell, the way Dean’s breath evaporates and his mind goes white-washed every time Sam throws him down or up against something-- could be he’s still shocked by the force of Sam’s body picking him up like it’s easy, or could be he’s still shocked that this is still happening, Sam still hasn’t run away, they’re still doing this crazy thing, and it’s still working and it still feels so fucking _good_. There’s a lot Dean still hasn’t gotten over.

It’s also still kind of shocking how regardless of Dean’s opinion of Sam’s roughness, Dean’s _dick_ fucking _loves_ how small and defenseless Sam makes him feel. Like, instant boner, the second his chest gets compressed between Sam and whatever surface it is, like his dick was secretly training for this for years. Before all this, Dean would never have written _feeling weak_ on a list of things that turn him on. It’s still kind of a surprise. An _amazing_ surprise.

Another surprise, once their shorts are gone, Sam rolls abruptly so Dean’s on top of him with one leg folded on either side of Sam’s narrow hips. Breathless, Dean tests briefly against the pressure of the forearms laid across his lower back, and then goes for it. Palms his dick down to the small heated gap between Sam’s thighs. He lets go on a gasp, makes two insistent fists in the stubbornly taut skin of Sam’s abdomen. His cock’s nestled against Sam’s balls, brushing against everywhere he’s warmest, prickling of hair giving an edge of frustration just enough that Dean _has_ to thrust down.

But Sam’s hands catch his hips.

 

 _Being forced to look into my brother’s eyes while he fucks his fingers into my asshole with his spit and stretches me open with one hand while holding my hips still with the other_ is another thing that wasn’t previously at the top of the list of things that make his cock leak. Or maybe it was. Hard to say, since the reality feels like an entirely different animal than the idea ever did.

Once Sam’s cock is in him, dear god, it’s impossible not to moan out loud and shove back onto it. But Sam only lets him do one of those things. Sam’s broad hands circling his hips, thumbs in the thick of hair frustratingly close to the base of Dean’s straining dick, palms pressing and holding Dean’s hips in space like a vice and Dean just has to sit there and _wait. Fuck_.

Dean moans again. It’s not a sob, really.

Sam talks to him, too, mutters things that make Dean’s chest feel full of some unstable substance, but the narration doesn’t get to him nearly as bad as the action does. Fucking leaking precome into the trail of hair leading from Sam’s navel to the place where Sam’s cock is currently… yeah. Dean sobs again. He tries to sit down, get more of Sam inside him, thighs straining with the effort. The muscles in Sam’s arms stand out, working to hold Dean in place. Dean lets his forehead drop heavily onto Sam’s sternum in defeat.

Finally, _finally_ , Sam starts fucking up into him. There are angles that feel better, but Dean knows that either this angle feels really good for Sam, or else Sam wants to _see_ Dean at this angle, and either of those options is a pretty satisfactory supplement. Dean’s not sure what’s driving him most crazy: the knowledge that for whatever reason, Sam wants him right here; the hot touch of Sam’s bare cock against his insides; or the fact that he _could_ be bouncing up and down or rocking back and forth or sitting upright and rolling his hips to make Sam’s cock grind in his ass, but there’s a bracing arm holding his shoulders down in place and a bruising hand keeping his pelvis from moving in any direction. Okay, so it’s probably the third thing.

Sam takes mercy on one of them, (Dean’s not sure,) and gives up on the slow pace. He pushes Dean’s ass up higher, bracing an elbow on the mattress so he can prop up Dean’s hips and slam into him with deeper thrusts. Dean’s eyes roll back, or his eyelids roll closed, or something, something he’s not in control of because his whole body feels fucking waterlogged with sensation.

With a grunt, Sam releases the hold he has on Dean’s shoulder, though as Dean’s back goes springing blissfully upright, Sam catches him. Hand clamped over the junction of his shoulder and neck. Dean moans, still trapped, but at least trapped at a better angle. Here, he can feel the top of Sam’s thighs slapping against his ass cheeks with each thrust. He’s drooling over the resounding ache of it. Not to mention, Sam’s cock is rubbing inside him real good now. Sweet and dirty as fuck drag.

Another thing Dean didn’t know about himself until Sam started doing this to him is that he’s flexible, when he needs to be. When Sam needs him to be.

Panting harsh now, Sam flips Dean down onto the bed and slides right back inside. Dean kinda loses consciousness for a second, and when he has senses again, Sam has one arm hooked under Dean’s neck and the other threaded under his knee and latching onto the top of his shoulder. Dean feels folded in half, his legs fitting no problem between them as Sam pulls and pushes his body on and off his cock. Dean couldn’t move even if he tried.

Only a few seconds of that and Dean’s coming in hard, generous spurts into the sweat-slick, indeterminate shared skin where Sam’s body is pressing into his. He maybe sobs a little bit.

He likes how Sam holds him in place until he comes, too. He likes how Sam shudders on top of him, how his huffing breaths make the sweat on Dean’s chest go cold. And when Sam’s body starts to relax, and Dean can move enough to sweep his hand up the length of Sam’s back, the sweat gathers under his palm, and he marvels at how Sam somehow manages to keep a grip when everything’s so slick. It’s astounding. It’s the kind of magic worth living for.

Dean presses his mouth against Sam’s neck, bites and things not quite committed to being kisses. He feels dirty, in a good way, but still, he wants to shower as soon as Sam lets him up. He tastes Sam’s neck extra hard as a hint.

Once Sam releases him, he makes it almost off the bed. Gets his feet over the edge and onto the floor, even, before Sam’s pulling him right off his feet again.

It’s a bit ridiculous, how easy that happens, and since his dick is good and satisfied at the moment, Dean rationally thinks that maybe he should start working out more, build up some more muscle mass so Sam can’t throw him around as easily. He lets Sam’s arms snake around him from behind, and figures it’s not anything he needs to worry about.

“Not letting you go anywhere,” Sam says, firm.

Takes Dean a second of two to figure out why Sam sounds so sad.

“Guess I’ll skip the shower, then,” Dean says through a smile, rolling over onto his back-- Sam lets him-- so he can stretch his arms over his head and give a generous faceful of underarm odor . Sam wrinkles his nose only slightly before tightening his grip around Dean’s ribcage. Dean sighs into it.

Not gonna matter how dirty he is when the hounds come for him in a few weeks.


End file.
